Company with These Ruins
by Anozir the Manipulator
Summary: Rhaegar Targaryen encounters a stranger during one of his visits to the ruins of Summerhall.


The stranger wore a dark blue coat, over a dirty red tunic. His boots were black and wrinkled, and they looked like they had been through hard times. His hair was black, and it hung down his back, tangled and matted. His face was, at the same time, young and impossibly old, like the weirwood trees of the North. His eyes were grey, and hard like steel.  
>Rhaegar stood slowly, and found that the stranger was at least a head taller than him. He drew his dark red cloak around himself, concealing the sword he wore at his side. He had no reason to fear a wandering outlaw. He was the blood of the dragon.<br>The stranger looked at Rhaegar for a long moment, and then turned away, casting his gaze over Rhaegar's harp on the ground, and the ruins of Summerhall in turn. Eventually, his gaze met Rhaegar's again.  
>"A prince who was a musician. I knew a being like that once. But he died long ago." the stranger said mournfully, looking not at Rhaegar, but at his harp.<br>"This is not a place for wandering vagabonds." Rhaegar said slowly. "You should not be here. Do you know what happened here?"  
>"Fire. Doom. I am no stranger to these things." the stranger replied, his dark eyes seeming to pierce Rhaegar's soul. "But tell me; why do you come here, prince?"<br>Rhaegar was silent for a long time. Not even he knew what he was thinking in that moment. But, at last, he began his tale, speaking haltingly.  
>"On the day I was born, Summerhall burned. No one knows why. But many died, including Aegon V, his son Duncan, and the Commander of the Kingsguard: Duncan the Tall. My grandfather, Jaehaerys, escaped the fire with my father Aerys. My mother was already in King's Landing, safe.<br>But the shadow of this tragedy lies over me. I return every so often, to. . .be connected with it."  
>The stranger was silent. Rhaegar suddenly wondered why he had told a wandering vagabond those things.<br>Probably just a stupid peasant who had never left his own village, Rhaegar thought suddenly.  
>But then the stranger started to speak.<br>"Long ago, prince, I was once a great lord in my own right. My sword saw many battles, but it was music that I loved and was famed for.  
>But in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, my lands were burned. I fled to my brother's stronghold, Himring. And I never forget what I saw then. The screams as people were burned alive, the smell of rotting flesh, and the dragon's eyes gleaming in the night."<br>"The last dragon died during the reign of Aegon III." Rhaegar said softly, ready to draw his sword. Clearly, this man was a lying outlaw. Even now, probably, his cronies were advancing unseen in the shadows, ready to cut his throat.  
>"Prince, there are more dragons than you know." the man said, in what might have been chastisement.<br>The hand that Rhaegar laid on his sword was visible, and they both knew he could have slain the stranger. But he didn't. Why, Rhaegar didn't know. Perhaps he never would. Instead, he talked.  
>"My great-grandfather Aegon thought so too. My father Aerys, and even my young brother Viserys. In my opinion, it is mad."<br>The stranger seemed taken aback. "You have a brother?"  
>Rhaegar nodded silently. Viserys was with Rhaella on Dragonstone; no harm could come to him.<br>"Keep him safe. Terrible thing to lose a brother." the stranger said sadly.  
>Rhaegar raised his eyebrows. "You lost a brother?"<br>"Six." he offered no more explanation than that, leaving Rhaegar slightly confused.  
>And then, abruptly, the stranger changed the subject. "May I play?" he asked, motioning to Rhaegar's harp, with something almost like longing in his eyes.<br>Rhaegar was reluctant. He had made the harp himself, with the help of King's Landing's finest musicians and woodworkers. It was his most treasured possession.  
>But, all the same, he handed it over. The stranger took it tentatively, and for the first time Rhaegar saw his hands. They were, in a word, horrifying. White scars streaked the palms of his hands, and where they were, the skin was puckered and raised.<br>But he held the harp gently, and slowly put his fingers to the strings, and began to play.  
>Whatever language it was, it was no language Rhaegar knew. But it was sad, hauntingly so, and he knew he would remember it forever. His harp made sounds that Rhaegar himself had never coaxed out of it. The song conjured up strange images in Rhaegar's mind. He saw a cliff, and the angry waves beating against the rock. A dreary rain beat down on the rock. A fleet of white and red ships sailed in the distance. A sword gleamed.<br>And suddenly, the song was over, and Rhaegar was stunned. He barely registered taking back his harp. All he wanted to know now was who this stranger was, and why he knew that song.  
>"What. . .what was that?" he asked in shock. "Who are you?"<br>"That was the Noldolantë. And in answer to your second question, I am Makalaurë. But you may call me Maglor."  
>He stood. "It is good for to keep company with ruins, at times. But not constantly. Keep yourself well, prince."<br>"And you, Maglor." Rhaegar managed, a new respect for him in his eyes.  
>But Maglor was gone. Rhaegar looked where he had left for a long moment. He stood slowly, and then dashed his harp against the rocks. Tears pricked at his eyes, but Rhaegar forced them back.<br>He didn't know why he was so upset, but Rhaegar knew that Maglor was the cause. Already, he regretted smashing his harp.  
>But what else could he have done? After the Noldolantë, nothing Rhaegar had ever heard nor might later hear could ever compete. And he knew that even if he renounced his kingship and spent his whole life playing the harp, he would not be Maglor's equal.<br>Rhaegar gathered up his many scattered books and carefully placed them in his bag. At least he always had books. He closed up the bag and hiked his bag up on his shoulders. Rhaegar drew his cloak around him closely.  
>And then he left too.<p> 


End file.
